


Turn of the Century

by anselm0



Category: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969)
Genre: Blanket Permission, Established Relationship, M/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anselm0/pseuds/anselm0
Summary: Apart from his fated end, the great tragedy of Butch’s life was Sundance.Sequel toEasy, but can be read as a standalone.
Relationships: Harry Longabaugh | Sundance Kid/Robert Parker | Butch Cassidy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	Turn of the Century

Butch had a lie in mind, which he looked forward to getting the opportunity to tell, that he was born the day the Civil War ended. The truth wasn’t interesting, or particularly accurate, as far as Butch was concerned. It seemed like a bad omen, 1866; a year that may as well not exist when it was right next to a year like 1865. That wasn’t Butch. No, he’d made himself into something real, something memorable, and he would be so even if he was fated to fall into memory with the nineteenth century. And he felt sure that was true. He felt like he existed only within a world slipping away, even that he perhaps was destined to die before the twentieth century. He was too wild for the railroads and starched collars and gas lamps the future threatened. Civilization was stealing farther west every week, it seemed, and Butch would only be able to outrun it for so long.

God’s own truth was in a man’s heart, as his father had liked to say. If he thought he would be able to get away with it, Butch would say he had been born from the red dirt and the eagles that circled over the cliffs and canyons on wind-chilled wings.

It really was a shame that so many of his thoughts were too fanciful to share with the likes of settler folk and outlaws. Butch reckoned he had a poetic flair.

“I think I might be drunk,” he realized.

“Given that’s the second time you’ve said that, you definitely are” Sundance said dryly.

Apart from his fated end, the great tragedy of Butch’s life was Sundance. There never was a man better suited to poetic fancy or less likely to appreciate Butch’s flourishes.

Butch peered down and saw that his glass wasn’t empty. “This must be good stuff. Have you had some? Here, you can have the rest of mine.”

Sundance took the glass but didn’t try it. He just set it aside, out of Butch’s reach. His mustache had the gall to twitch in amusement. Shocked at this betrayal, Butch reeled in his chair.

Sundance yanked him straight by the scruff of his neck. “If you pass out here, I’m not carrying you in.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk,” Butch protested mulishly. “Maybe there’s an earthquake.”

Sundance barked a laugh. “Sure there is, Butch. Wyoming’s famous for the tremors.”

Not quite following the joke, having been distracted by the pleasure of making Sundance laugh, Butch made a vague noise of agreement. Maybe Sundance had already had some of the good stuff, because he just chuckled some more, smiling at Butch even as he shook his head. Sundance was like that, one thing and the other simultaneously. Butch didn’t know how he kept it up, being sullen and dangerous all the time except when they were alone. But he liked it.

That kind of poetry was the whole reason he’d invited Sundance to join the gang in the first place. He was competent, reliable, not likely to start trouble that didn’t need starting, and most importantly, he looked the part of an outlaw. It was crucial to live up to folks’ expectations on a blag, or they might get squirrelly on you. They might start wondering if they weren’t quick enough or brave enough to just refuse. Butch fashioned himself after the kind of outlaw people quietly rooted for, the kind they didn’t mind hearing had ripped off some east coast banker. That worked pretty well for him most times. But it never hurt to have the Sundance Kid beside him, unsmiling and steely-eyed, hand ready on his revolver, just in case.

It was not clear to Butch what Sundance had done to get locked up the first time or what he’d been doing between getting out and the day they met; everybody had a different story, except the Kid, who didn’t volunteer anything. But everybody talked about him in hushed tones. As far as Butch could tell the first time they crossed paths in a Colorado cow town, the Sundance Kid’s only obvious sins were holding his tongue in company, keeping his own counsel, and not being apt to laugh at bad jokes. Butch half suspected that the truth wasn’t worth the telling, but it didn’t matter. The fact was that every friend and acquaintance of his in the state felt the need to warn Butch not to cross the Sundance Kid. That he wasn’t the type to appreciate a friendly ribbing or an overly familiar attitude; Butch had felt that advice was unnecessarily pointed when shared with him, specifically. That Sundance was not a man to play poker with, and if you did anyway, then he was not a man to trouble about his astonishing luck without damn good reason.

The first time they met properly, Butch had been flush enough from rustling horses to play poker with an obvious cheat. He’d been curious every time that spring he saw or heard about the Sundance Kid, who didn’t have the manners to take his hat off indoors even though his poker face was stony enough to stand the exposure. They’d chased the rest of the players off and Butch lost forty dollars to him before he whistled admiringly.

“That is some blessed luck you have. I can’t figure how you’re doing it, and me cheating as best I can.”

The whole saloon went quiet. Sundance had stared at him, the same way mountain lions stare at rabbits. “It’s bad manners to cheat,” he’d said at last.

“Well, I’m only occasionally accused of being a gentleman.” Butch anted up for the next hand like it was a foregone conclusion, pretending not notice when Sundance blinked in surprise. “Don’t suppose I need to be, in my line of work.”

“Suppose you just like to be, then.”

Butch hadn’t been surprised that he had reputation enough for a near-stranger to know how he liked to run a job, but it had been a particular satisfaction to hear it from Sundance. “I’m more in the habit of planning well than relying on luck.”

“Shame. Seemed like you were going to offer me a job. Two dollars.”

“It’s not your bet, and I said I’m in the habit of planning well.”

“You were going to check. Breaking your habit, then?”

Butch had scowled at his pair of eights, secretly thrilled for no reason he could think of. “I think of it as stacking the deck in my favor. Even if I don’t rely on luck, you’re a good shot, aren’t you? For when things don’t go as gentlemanly as I like.”

Sundance had been quiet while he dealt the new cards, two to each of them, studying Butch closer than his hand as they bet. His three sixes beat Butch’s pair, and then he said, “So what’s the job?”

They did the job and Sundance took his cut and left. But the next time Butch asked him on a job, Sundance stuck around without even being asked to. He kept sticking around, just like it was a foregone conclusion when it was anything but. Butch didn’t know what he’d done to win Sundance’s loyalty any more than he knew anything about Sundance, but he had it. He knew in his bones that Sundance was with him. They weren’t friends the same way Butch was with other fellows in the gang. Butch couldn’t really imagine Sundance carousing like that. Sundance liked to sit and drink and say things so rarely and so deadpan most folks didn’t realize he was the second funniest guy in Wyoming. And he seemed to like doing all that with Butch. Butch ended up spending a lot of time not carousing with the rest of his friends.

“Having another earthquake?” Sundance asked him. The chairs didn’t have arms, so Butch was apparently leaning on Sundance’s leg up propped up against the porch railing. He poked at Sundance’s knee just to make sure.

“Did you know, I was born the day the Civil War ended.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Now, why’d you—” Heaving a sigh, Butch dragged himself upright. He kept his hand on the inside of Sundance’s knee, just in case of tremors. Or something. “I could have been.”

“Lot of things could have been that aren’t.”

“You don’t know.”

“I know what you look like when you’re telling a tale.” Sundance slouched in his seat, settling in with his toothpick to gnaw on. “Alright then, why do you want me to think you were born the day the Civil War ended?”

Just totally unsuited to poetry. “It’s no good when you’ve got to _explain_ it.”

“Better not tell me then, if it’s no good for you.” Sundance must have been at least a little drunk, because he waggled the toothpick at Butch to punctuate the joke.

The door opened then, the owner of the boarding house sticking her head out to see if they wanted anything else before she turned in. Sundance’s thigh tensed up under Butch’s hand, but he had the sense to not move. Butch didn’t move away, either. Flinching would just make them look guilty. As he turned to talk to her, he affected a drunken sway into Sundance’s leg, more or less on purpose.

“No, ma’am. We’re fine here, thank you, ma’am. Excuse me, what time is it anyway?”

“Just gone ten by my carriage clock, Mr. Lowe. Breakfast around five-thirty when Mr. Harrison starts his day. Will you be setting off before then? I could have something cold done up.”

Not with the hangover he was going to have, not even if the Pinkertons were on their tails. “I’m sure your hot breakfast’s worth sticking around for, ma’am. Say, would Mr. Harrison know of any work going around these parts? Frank and me, we’re real good with horses, and we can do any ranching job you could think of.”

She smiled at him, the smile Butch always prided himself for earning from stern matrons: indulgent despite herself. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Harrison. Good night, Mr. Lowe, Mr. Brown. Mind you don’t let the door slam when you come in.”

She had demonstrated the way to close the door gently and the lamp in the hall dimmed behind her before Sundance murmured, “I didn’t know we were fixing to stick around.”

“Maybe we won’t, but Harry Lowe and Frank Brown would take any work anywhere.” He found a tear he’d mended in Sundance’s denims, meditatively running his thumb across the stitches. Sundance could have done it himself, but he’d traded Butch for trimming Jennie’s hooves. The Kid liked horses. “Besides, we’re sitting on our thumbs until spring here or there. May be that doing a little honest work is worth the distraction.”

Sundance got the glass he’d taken from Butch and downed it. “I don’t mind honest work.”

“Just for a while, just for the winter.”

“Not a lot of work going in the winter.”

“Well,” Butch frowned at this problem. Figuring things was his job, after all. “Well, somebody’ll take pity on us.”

“Funny to count on that when you’ve got a perfectly good Hole in the Wall.” Sundance jounced his leg against Butch’s side. Butch looked at him and it was lucky he had something to hold onto, with Sundance smiling at him like that. Sundance never flirted except when he wanted to amuse himself by flustering Butch.

Eyes crinkling up tighter, Sundance knocked his knee into Butch’s side again. “You avoiding your own gang, Butch?”

“What? I mean—” Butch floundered. “Aw, hell, no fair doing that when I’m drunk.”

“You’re not that drunk.”

“Well, it isn’t the Wyoming earthquakes.”

Maybe he wasn’t in the mood for carousing. Not that winters were often full of carousing, but it would be fun to play Harry Lowe and Frank Brown with Sundance for this winter. Just to play at being regular folks for a while, with the great pleasure of also screwing each other silly whenever the actual regular folks weren’t looking. Not to mention they would probably be able to do that more often here than in Hole in the Wall, surrounded by people who constantly wanted to talk to Butch. 

He tipped sideways when Sundance’s leg was suddenly gone. Sundance scooted his chair closer and put his foot up on Butch’s seat. It wasn’t any good to lean on anymore, but it was perfect for holding Sundance’s knee. In a while, Butch was going to run his hand up to his thigh like he didn’t realize he was doing it.

“If we’re sticking around, you should know,” Sundance said quietly into the small space between them. “That’s my name. Harry.”

“No, you’re Frank.”

“I can keep a goddamn alias straight, Butch. I mean my real name is Harry.”

“Honest to God?” Butch tipped Sundance’s hat farther back to see his face better by the moonlight. He looked serious enough, but he usually did. He looked nervous, too. “Huh. I’d never take you for a Harry.”

“What name would you take me for?”

“I don’t know, maybe a James or a Jacob.” Sundance snorted. “Alright, you guess my name since it’s so easy.”

“How about you just tell me if you want to.”

Butch blew out a long breath in a hum. He put his hand on Sundance’s knee again, on his thigh, because he could. “It’s Robert. I never liked that name and apparently my parents didn’t, either. They always called me Roy after my middle name.”

“Roy,” Sundance tested it out.

“I don’t like that much anymore, either. I’ve gotten real used to Butch.”

“I’d go so far as to say you’ve a taste for butch.” Smirking, Sundance dragged Butch’s hand up to his crotch and squeezed.

“Not like you to brag, Sundance.”

“It’s not bragging to tell the truth.”

It might be stupid, but they could always hightail out of town in case of trouble, so Butch leaned forward and kissed him. Sundance allowed it, even though it was more brazen than Butch might have dared if he was stone sober. It was enough leniency for Butch to push his luck.

“What about you? _Harry_ ,” Butch rasped in his ear, and congratulated himself on following his hunch when Sundance immediately gave, head lolling so Butch could suck a mark on his neck. He started working Sundance’s prick through his jeans in reward; Sundance spread his knees wider. “What about you? Huh, Harry? Are you developing a taste for butch men, too?”

“No,” Sundance said, stubborn even while he pushed up into Butch’s hand.

“You don’t think so?”

“I think—” Breath hitching, Sundance pulled his hand away. “I think you better close that door carefully if you want me to suck your cock.”

Sundance didn’t like his hair being pulled. He didn’t like being used roughly for his mouth in any way. The disparity might have annoyed Butch, who Sundance never minded treating roughly, except when left to his own devices, Sundance sucked cock like a man savoring an ice-cold cola in August. It was like blagging; act the gentleman and reap the benefits. When Butch had shared this revelation, Sundance bit him where he’d chafe all day in the saddle. Butch had complained, but there were worse fates to be borne than a reminder of Sundance’s mouth on him. And there were far worse pains than having to lie back with nothing to do but admire Sundance’s square jaw, highlighted by his hollowed in cheeks.

When they got to their room, Butch took the time to light the lamp before getting his trousers unbuttoned. He was still drunk enough not to be hard yet, but he would be by the time he worked Sundance over. It was a shame about the Harrisons upstairs; it felt like a night Sundance wouldn’t object to being manhandled a little in the process. But he did believe in planning over luck, so Butch put his mind to it.

He backed him into the wall, slow and deliberate. Watching him narrowly, Sundance let it happen. He went easy, tossing his hat onto the bed so Butch could put him flush against Mrs. Harrison’s bluebonnet wallpaper. Butch took his time, straightening Sundance’s lapels pointlessly before maneuvering him to help him out of the jacket.

“I could suck you off,” he said conversationally, “but I don’t think that’s what you want.”

“You think you know what I want?”

Butch leaned all the way into him, making himself a hard weight holding Sundance in place. His cock was stiff against Butch’s thigh. “Yeah, I’ve got a guess I’m willing to bet on.”

Sundance had moved like he was thinking about shoving Butch off. He could have done it easily, but he didn’t. Butch just waited, kissing on the mark he’d put on Sundance outside, until he went pliant.

“I’d take that bet.”

Quiet as he could, Butch laughed. “Boy, wouldn’t that be something? I’d probably get fat and lazy if I could just lean on you.” Butch bit his lip before Sundance could say something smart about that. He prompted Sundance to put an arm over his shoulders and shifted to one side so he was still pressing Sundance into the wall but there was room for Butch to get his hand into his pants.

“Don’t worry, I’ll stroke you off. You do whatever else you need to do, Sundance, only don’t get in the way and don’t wake Mrs. Harrison.”

Butch wasn’t actually doing much, but the idea of it was more important than the thing in practice. The _idea_ that he had Sundance helpless, even though he didn’t really, was doing most of the work. And Sundance played along. He worked himself up just holding still and staying quiet, two habits he kept every day, except now he was keeping them because Butch had told him to. Butch indulged in some lazy rutting against Sundance’s hip, just as much as me could without letting up, but Sundance’s arm was clamping the bulk of his weight in place, too. Every so often, Sundance’s hips would twitch before he could stop it, useless with no space between the wall and Butch pinning him, two fingers hooked through Sundance’s left belt loop as a reminder. His cock was ruddy in Butch’s hand, but he could see that anytime; Butch didn’t want to miss a single shuddering breath of Sundance keeping himself in line.

“Wait, hold on.” Butch squeezed the base of his cock when Sundance was nearly there. “Hold it there. I can’t have your come on my shirtsleeve when I’m talking to Mr. Harrison tomorrow at breakfast, can I?”

“Hang Harrison!” Sundance’s chest heaved as he watched Butch strip off his shirt. Butch drew it out, fixing the collar and hanging the shirt just so over a chairback. It was already in sore need of a wash, but he liked Sundance’s furious glare almost as much as he liked his unexpected smiles. Sundance’s head fell back against the wall with a quiet thunk.

“Hey, careful!” Butch slipped his hand behind Sundance’s head, petting him as if a tiny bump like that might have hurt him. Sundance gripped him by the waistband with both hands, but he still wouldn’t do anything to get relief for himself.

“Would you just let me come already?”

“Yeah, come on.” He got Sundance’s arm back around his shoulder and his hand back on his prick. Without prompting, Sundance put his head down on Butch’s neck, buried in his arm. Butch held him, overcome with some weird feeling like a shot of liquor on an empty stomach. He’d thought he was sobering up. He rested his cheek on Sundance’s sweaty temple as he jerked him to completion.

After, Sundance leaned his head back against the wall. Butch made sure he didn’t knock it again, cradling the back of his head, and Sundance still didn’t push him away. He wasn’t gripping Butch’s shirt like a lifeline anymore, but he seemed content to keep Butch there while he got his breath back.

When they were steady, the only words Butch could find were “I closed the door very carefully. Both doors.”

Sundance snorted. “Alright. Get on the bed.”

Butch wiped his hand on his undershirt and then they both stripped down to their drawers. Mrs. Harrison had peered closely at the pair of them before offering Butch her son’s empty room upstairs. Butch had pretended not to be able to afford a second room. Staying in boarding houses was a convenient excuse to bed down with Sundance. Even if he had a Carnegie’s gold, Butch would deny it before he gave that up.

The mattress was lumpy and thin enough to feel the ropes shifting under him as Butch laid down in the middle of the bed. Sundance followed, careful and proud as a cat. “You’re a man of your word, Sundance. I like that.”

“You’re a bastard.”

Butch groaned quietly as Sundance took him in his mouth. “I wasn’t there when my parents were married, but I took them at their word they were.”

Sundance ignored him except to shift Butch’s legs into a shape more to his liking. Butch tugged his own hair to keep from touching his. When Sundance blew him, Butch couldn’t see the lopsided fullness of his lower lip, which was occasionally his favorite thing about Sundance’s face. But it was worth it, because Sundance got focused enough to not hear a thing Butch said. Not even if Butch told him he reminded him of the sandstone formations in the desert, the cliffs with their shadowed crags, or that Sundance’s eyes were like the cloudless blue sky where it was darkest at the top of its dome. That Sundance made him feel like a hide, scraped and stretched until the sun shone through it and the thin spots became obvious. He could tell Sundance everything he normally kept to himself, all the silly poetic flourishes that had occurred to him since the last time they’d been in this position.

“I bet I won’t ever run out, God, I could do this forever, I could watch you forever—oh, fuck—oh!”

Sundance usually swallowed, but this time he made Butch come all over himself.

“What was that for?”

Sundance shrugged. “That shirt needed washing anyway.” He bent and licked Butch and his fingers clean.

“And who’s going to do that?” Butch asked, several beats late.

Avoiding getting his own shirt in the mess, Sundance kissed Butch up his chin and cheek. Butch tried to catch his mouth, but Sundance wouldn’t be caught before making Butch chase him a while. Butch was eager to follow. They were both sticky with drying sweat, Sundance tasted like whiskey and spunk, and Butch wasn’t sure if he felt more like the bull at the salt lick or the salt.

They got under the blanket. The undershirt, Butch tossed into a corner to deal with in the morning. It was cold outside, but the Harrisons had a sturdy house, so it was warm enough that Sundance didn’t huddle against his chest. Butch ran hot, so he doubled up the blanket on Sundance’s side of the bed. He always ended up there anyway, so Butch wriggled into place, curled into Sundance. The blue moonlight made him look like he had been carved from stone. Butch wanted to kiss him again, just to reassure himself he was living flesh. Although it would be rarer that he didn’t want to kiss Sundance.

“Where are you from, Kid?”

He turned to look at Butch. “Sundance,” he said, like he was an idiot for having to ask. Butch supposed that was fair. A man wouldn’t take a name that was meaningless.

Butch pressed his nose against Sundance’s shoulder. He nearly fell asleep before Sundance returned, “You? Robert Roy Cassidy,” he touched Butch’s hair lightly. “Where are you from?”

“Utah.” It wasn’t interesting, but Sundance wanted to know. He never asked much. Butch was helpless with the idea Sundance wanted him. “I’m from Beaver County, Utah. Robert LeRoy Parker.”

Sundance made a noise to show he’d heard. Then he rolled away. Affronted, Butch picked his head up, but Sundance was only cracking open the window.

“You’re too warm,” Sundance said defensively. He tossed Butch’s half of the blanket over him and settled back where he had been, scowling. Maybe even a hair closer. Butch could feel him breathing.

Butch wriggled closer, throwing an arm over Sundance. “Knot under my hip,” he said by way of excuse.

“Uh-huh.” Sundance didn’t put any effort into pretending to believe him. He was goddamn charming anyway.

“Then what about you, Harry?”

“Back east. New Jersey.”

“No kidding?”

“Came out when I was fifteen.”

Butch tried to imagine Sundance that young. He would have been pale and unformed, no black hat, no width to his shoulders, wide-eyed at the prairies and great mountains. Butch couldn’t fix that image over the man in front of him, shaped and burnished by a life he had chosen when he must have still been young. He had become so solid and dependable with age, Butch could readily imagine him making a good rancher, if he ever thought to try it. He probably still had plenty of time to go straight if he wanted. Come to think of it, he wasn’t totally sure how old Sundance was now.

Butch didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t care to think about Sundance being Harry before and possibly deciding he wanted to be Harry again. He’d never given himself a new name, after all, just stayed quiet and let other people’s need to call him something work itself out. Not that Butch was feeling uncertain about Sundance’s loyalty. Nobody else got to see him like this, and he didn’t have humility enough to think there wasn’t a reason for that.

Sundance bunched the thin pillow up under his head, then put his hand over Butch’s on his side, like he was checking his gun was in easy reach. The touch only lasted a moment before he put that hand back under the pillow behind his head, and yet the feeling of it lingered. It was a good thing he was sobering up, or Butch wouldn’t be able to resist thinking about being Sundance’s piece, and then he’d be bound for trouble the next time he had to watch Sundance clean his guns.

To distract himself, he said, “Ever think of going back?”

Sundance shrugged, his shoulder hitching into Butch’s chin. “It’s just a place I used to be. Like Canada.”

“Like Utah.”

“You’ve been back to Utah.”

“Only for a train robbery. Two robberies?” He couldn’t remember if the second one had been in Utah or Colorado. He still thought of Utah as the green valley he’d been born in, even though he hadn’t seen any part of the state but desert since _he_ was fifteen. “Anyhow. I haven’t been welcome there in a long while.”

“Not the only place,” Sundance noted dismissively. “Alright, I know you’ve got your yarn spun. So where are you from, Butch?”

Butch smiled in the dark and told him.


End file.
